One To Feel Good About
by J.P. D'Osty-Fernandez
Summary: The unit successfully battles their bureacratic socialisation and the bureacrats to bring justice to an ordinary victim in an ordinary case.


One To Feel Good About  
-by J.P. D'Osty—Fernandez  
  
Chapter One  
  
"SVU. Detective Munch speaking."  
  
"John. Lenny Briscoe here."  
  
"Hello, Lenny! Lemme sit up!" Munch did nothing of the kind. "If the Murder Police deigns to call down from Mount Olympus, it must be important. One of your exes threatening to go public about your sexual depravities?"  
  
"Donnie really needs to monitor your Internet use, Munch. But yes, I do have a case for you."  
  
Pen already in hand, Munch reached for his notebook.  
  
"Do you have an address for me?"  
  
"Come on over. I have a witness who has something you'll wanna hear."  
  
Fifteen minutes later, Munch was behind the mirror with Briscoe, looking at an agitated man in his late thirties fidgeting inside the Box.  
  
"He's a reporter." said Lenny. "He helped us out a little while back. Remember the Ravelli case?"  
  
"Oh, yeah, Kellog the 'ace reporter' offing the bounty hunter who was squeezing him. So, what does your witness have for us?"  
  
"He wants to report a rape."  
  
"Report? There are a lot of sickos in this world. But if this guy cleaned up, he killed any forensics..."  
  
"He's not the vic, John. Just a witness. Let's go in. Better you hear it from him"  
  
They entered the Box, and Briscoe introduced the two. After they all sat down, the reporter began.  
  
"There is this girl I see at the hotel every week. Cosette. Yesterday afternoon, I get to her room. The door was unlocked. I knocked, and went in. There she was, spread-eagled on the bed. There were nylon nooses around her wrists and ankles, tied to the bed frame. She had two large welts on her abdomen. And there was a gag in her mouth that looked like it was made from a dish rag."  
  
"Which hotel was this?  
  
"The Cesar's Palace"  
  
"Classy joint. Which room?"  
  
"205. We used to meet uptown, but after Detective Briscoe and his partner made us, Cosette decided to lay low for a while."  
  
"She succeeded. Sleazar's Palace is as low as you can get. What time did you get there?"  
  
"Quarter to one."  
  
"Did you check Cosette for a pulse?"  
  
"Didn't have to. Her eyes were open, and she was crying. I undid the nooses and the gag and gave her my jacket to cover herself."  
  
"Could she talk?" asked Munch.  
  
"She was sobbing, and it took her a while to get her breath back. I asked 'Did somebody hurt you?' She nodded up and down. I said "Alright, we need to call the police." But, when I was going for my cell, she grabbed my forearm. She had a look in her face. She said 'No! We can't!' I told her it didn't matter, that what happened to her was wrong..."  
  
"What didn't matter?" interrupted Munch.  
  
"What she did. I told her the police would still try to get the bastard that did this to her. She yelled "NO!" and threw my coat at me. She got up and reached down for her clothes on the right side of the bed. I put my hand on her shoulder, and tried to reason with her again. She knocked my hand off, and gave me this really ferocious look, and said if I didn't get out of there right that minute she would scream and I would go to jail for raping her."  
  
"What happened then?"  
  
"I didn't know what else to do. I picked up my jacket and went back to work. I called Detective Briscoe, but he was out. He just returned my call two hours ago. I was going to come in to see him if he had not called."  
  
Munch leaned back in his chair, took a deep breath and released it.  
  
"You realize that in the course of what you just said, you've admitted to a pattern of solicitation and implicated your friend Cosette in prostitution?"  
  
"Yes." Munch was taken aback. In Baltimore, they used to say that everybody has something to hide. Somebody coming out clean like this, without even a perfunctory working over, well that was rarer than a diamond.  
  
"That still doesn't make what happened to Cosette any less of a crime."  
  
"You realize," Munch continued as if uninterrupted "that you might be looking at a conviction for solicitation and a possible fine."  
  
"After I saw those welts, and that look, that...terrible look in Cosette's eyes, I really don't give a damn about that. What that bastard did to her...no one should have to go through that! I don't care if it gets me a record, I don't care if my wife finds out, I don't care if I have to pay a fine. I just can't sit still and do nothing."  
  
The Box was silent for a few minutes.  
  
"Well," began Munch, "You're a very brave man and a real citizen. Any idea where we can find Cosette?"  
  
"She uses this number." The reporter pulled out his notebook, tore out a sheet, scribbled a number, and then passed it to Munch.  
  
"OK. Thank you very much, sir. We'll take it from here."  
  
"What do I have to do about the solicitation and the fine?"  
  
"We'll worry about that if it comes to that." Munch answered, getting up. Briscoe and the reporter rose too. Munch extended his had to the reporter. "You did the right thing. If there were a few more people like you, Lenny here and me would be out of a job. Least we can do is cut you some slack if we can."  
  
Briscoe escorted the reporter outside of the homicide squad. Then he returned to Munch, who waited at Briscoe's desk.  
  
"Well, what do you think, John?"  
  
"I don't know, Lenny. Prostitutes ending up dead after being raped, that's something we could work with. But a prostitute just getting raped, well that's going to be harder."  
  
"If it's a question of man-hours, let me talk to Donnie..."  
  
"No, I have a better idea."  
  
Chapter Two  
  
"Counselor."  
  
Casey Novak looked up from the legal pad.  
  
"Detective Munch. Have a seat. What can I do for you?"  
  
Munch recounted what the reporter told him. Then he waited for Casey to respond. She had listened attentively and without interruption. Now, she had steepled her fingers, and then interlaced them as if to pray. She rested her chin upon them. Her eyes stared ahead, her mind in profound reflection.  
  
"Damn!" thought Munch. "I should have figured Novak would not be any more sympathetic than Creggan. She has bigger cases too. And ones where she can actually get convictions. Still, I had to give it a shot..."  
  
"What about the number for Cosette?" Casey asked at last, "Did you check it out?"  
  
"No. I wanted to run it by you first. I mean, a prostitute getting raped? I figure you would be hard pressed to get a grand jury to indict, even if Cosette wants to come forward."  
  
"You're right, Detective. It's going to be a hard sell. That's why I need you to get me something solid to work with."  
  
Munch was silent for a moment. When Casey was attached to SVU after Alex Cabot's murder, he did not think much of her. None of the SVU detectives did. She had been pushy, trying to tell everyone how to do their jobs. She looked like she was out to get her ticket punched with a few Red Balls, and then move on to greener and more profitable pastures, or on to a judgeship, like Danvers back in Baltimore. Then, after a while, she backed down. Sure, she was a little awkward in court at first. But, with every case, she seemed to get more comfortable with the squad, who, although with some reserve, began to accept her on the team, if only as a probationary.  
  
Now, Munch was convinced that the athletic redhead's probationary period was nearing its end. Here was a nothing case. If it had been a murder, it would have been classified a "whodunit", and probably would have stayed in red until kingdom come. When he was a Murder Police, Munch hated cases like these. All the Murder Police did. Red under your name on the board did not look good when the bosses came looking around. Munch could not imagine someone voluntarily picking up a career-harming whodunit.  
  
But Casey just did. Munch noted her utter lack of hesitation in grabbing the ball. She talked as if she was already preparing to go to the grand jury, like this was already a case in progress. Without any criticism, Casey had already committed fully to a case that would, in all probability, remain unsolved. And the case was not, in fact, already in progress.  
  
"I would very much like to do that, Counselor. But I'm not so sure my Captain's gonna want to authorize the man-hours I need for this case."  
  
"I don't understand. He already authorized enough time for you to get this far. That means he must think the case has some legs."  
  
"He didn't exactly authorize even that. I got a call from an acquaintance in the Murder Police..."  
  
"The what?"  
  
"Murder Police. Sorry. That's what we called Homicide investigators in Baltimore."  
  
Casey smiled "When I was growing up in Alexandria, we used to call the cops John Law. Yankees thought we meant either bathroom etiquette or the section of the penal code on prostitution every time they heard it."  
  
Munch laughed. "I bet you didn't go out of your way to disabuse them of that notion. And you don't sound like someone who calls other people Yankees."  
  
"They never have time to listen. And when I was ten, my dad got a job in Colorado. Then, I went to high school in Hawaii. They can take you away from home, but they can never take home out of you."  
  
"Sounds like it." Munch's smile slowly faded. "But, you just raised another problem with this one. Our witness has openly admitted to solicitation, and you know what Cosette was doing. I figure, if we get anywhere, no judge will want to convict Cosette afterwards. But this reporter, he came in of his own volition and did his duty as a citizen. I would really like to give him a break."  
  
Casey reached for the block of square notepaper at the edge of her desk. Once she reached it, she tore off a sheet, scribbled something on it, and handed this to Munch.  
  
"Give this to your witness."  
  
Munch looked down on the square sheet of notepaper. His eyebrows rose.  
  
"This is one of the best defense lawyers in the city. I'm not sure my witness will be able to afford him."  
  
"When he hears that I am opposing counsel, he won't charge your witness a dime. He hates me so much, that he'll work any case against me pro bono."  
  
"A lover's quarrel?"  
  
"You have quite an imagination, Detective! But, no. We were in Law School together. I defeated him in a case in Moot Court. He has been screaming for vengeance ever since. But, I still don't understand why Creggan wouldn't authorize the man-hours."  
  
"Well, as I was saying, an acquaintance in the Murder Police brought this witness to me. Creggan doesn't know about it yet. And we have plenty of other cases where we actually have something to work with."  
  
"You have that phone number to work with. So why don't you start there? If Creggan puts up a fuss, tell him you ran into me and told me about it, and that I want to prosecute the perp when you get him."  
  
"Sounds like a plan, Counselor." Munch responded as he rose "Thanks for the support."  
  
"Hey, we're all on the same side." Casey's attention had gone back to her legal pad.  
  
Munch looked back at her for a moment. Either this one was extremely naïve and had a dangerously insufficient grasp of the concept of political capital, or she actually meant what she said, a prettier Simon Templar straight out of some simplified '50's TV show where the good guys always won. Normally, Munch would look for some flaw, for some chink in the armor, and then burst the bubble. But Casey had a quality about her that Munch found quite likeable. And it wasn't just her looks either...  
  
Chapter Three  
  
"Munch! Where the hell have you been?"  
  
Captain Donnie Creggan was not in a good mood. Judging by the looks on the other three pairs of eyes that were trained on him, Munch figured that he was not a candidate for the SVU Detective of the Week award.  
  
"Caught a case."  
  
"Which one? And why didn't you notify me before you left like you're supposed to."  
  
"You were in the can. Stabler and Benson were out working the Wallace case. Fin was getting lunch. Lenny Briscoe called me and said he had something for SVU. I figured I would only be gone a couple of minutes."  
  
Creggan exhaled, closed his eyes and massaged his temples. Stabler, Benson and Fin all swiveled their chairs to face Munch more directly.  
  
"Okay, John. What did Lenny have for you?" asked Creggan, opening his eyes again.  
  
"A witness walked in and reported a rape. The vic is Cosette Alexander, 28. The rape happened yesterday a little before one PM in Room 205 of the Cesar's Palace."  
  
"The Sleazar's Palace?" asked an incredulous Stabler. "What exactly was the vic doing there? And, for that matter, what exactly was the witness doing there."  
  
"Ms. Alexander is a pro." Creggan sighed. Stabler groaned and rolled his eyes. Benson and Fin continued to listen without reaction."  
  
"Was your witness a customer?" inquired Fin. Munch nodded. "Then, this is going to be hard to work."  
  
"If we can work it at all." Stabler chimed in. "C'mon, John! A prostitute crying rape? And your only witness is a john? Even if you can believe that story, I doubt a jury ever will."  
  
"And we have the Wallace case. We have the rape kit and a description of the perp. Latent will have the prints for us in no time..." Creggan began to conclude.  
  
"So it sounds like Wallace is a slam dunk. No reason why we can't start working this one." interjected Munch.  
  
"Work it for what?" The emphasis on the "what" underscored Stabler's annoyance. "This is a go nowhere case. If even the vic doesn't want to come forward..."  
  
"That means we should just ignore it, Elliot?" interjected Benson "Let this bastard go out and do this again?"  
  
"You're assuming that 'this bastard' actually raped Cosette." Stabler pointed out. "So far, we have no forensics and a vic and a witness who are less than exemplary."  
  
The phone in Creggan's office rang, he went to answer it.  
  
"Oh, so if some rich witch on Park Avenue cries rape, we believe her. But if a sex worker gets raped, that just comes with the territory?" There was anger in Benson's voice.  
  
"We have no forensics, and the vic hasn't even come forward to file a complaint, Liv! What do you expect us to do?"  
  
"Did you ever think that maybe the reason 'the vic' and many others like her don't come forward is because they don't want to put up with exactly that attitude?" Benson got up.  
  
Before Stabler reacted, Creggan walked in from his office.  
  
"That was Briscoe. He gave me the last known address for Ms. Alexander from his case notebook." Creggan's eyebrows furrowed, as if he were trying to fathom something thus far incomprehensible. "But before that, he asked if you were back from the DA, John."  
  
"I had my doubts about this one too. That's why I went over to see what Casey thought about it. She wants to prosecute as soon as we have our perp."  
  
The squad room fell silent for a moment.  
  
"Okay, Stabler, Fin, you go down to the lab and see what they have for us on Wallace. John, you and Olivia go see Ms. Alexander, and see if she wants to come forward."  
  
The detectives grabbed their coats.  
  
Chapter 4  
  
"Is Cosette here?" Munch asked the manager of the diner. They had gone to her apartment building. There was no response at the number Briscoe had given them. But, the landlady came out and told them that Cosette was not in. She did not know where Cosette was. She did know that Cosette kept odd hours, and that, a few weeks back, she got a part-time day job waitressing at a diner. The diner was five blocks from the apartment.  
  
"We have no Cosette working here." The manager responded with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. This time of the day was slow. When Benson and Munch walked in, he thought they were customers. After they identified themselves, he knew it would be another long hour and a half until the dinner crowd came in.  
  
A waitress approached the trio. Benson saw her. She noticed that skin around the waitress' left eye was slightly paler than that around her right. Like she had put just a dab too much make-up there. She had a rather large watchband on her left wrist, and a two-inch thick brass bracelet on her right. White nylon stockings ran from her shoes all the way up to her skirt.  
  
"It's just the cops, Charlene." The manager told the waitress. "They've got the wrong address. Go back to what you were doing."  
  
"Charlene, may we have a word with you?" asked Benson "We're friends of Detective Briscoe"  
  
The manager's eyes narrowed slightly. How come this woman detective expected Charlene to know this 'Detective Briscoe?' Did Charlene lie to him on her application form? She must be hiding something...something worth a sexual favor from Charlene if he was to keep quiet about it...  
  
"I don't know any Detective Briscoe!" the waitress exclaimed, turning away. "I have to get back to work!"  
  
Benson went after her. Munch interposed himself between the manager and Benson. He had noticed the look in the manager's eyes.  
  
"Charlene, please! It's important."  
  
Once they were out of earshot of Munch and the manager, the waitress turned to face Benson. She had the look of a hunted animal in her eyes.  
  
"Look, I'm trying to go straight. I really am. Please don't ruin it for me. I need this job."  
  
"We're not here about that, Ms. Alexander."  
  
"I told Detective Briscoe everything I know. Besides, didn't they convict Kellog a while ago?"  
  
"Yes they did, Ms. Alexander. But we need to talk to you about something else."  
  
Cosette Alexander cast a furtive glance over Benson's shoulder at the manager. He was looking wide-eyed at Munch.  
  
"OK. Let's do it outside. I'll tell my boss I need a cigarette. But let's be quick, OK? He's a sleazy little worm, and if he thinks I finds out about what I...used to do, he's going to try to squeeze me even harder."  
  
"Don't worry about your boss. My partner is explaining things to him." Benson looked to Munch, who had just finished with the manager, and nodded sideways, indicating that he should join her and Cosette.  
  
"So what's this about?" asked Cosette, cigarette in hand, when Munch had joined them and they were all seated.  
  
"Ms. Alexander, "I am Detective Munch, this is Detective Benson. Detective Briscoe is a colleague of ours."  
  
"Yeah, and I haven't seen him since they were done with that case. So?"  
  
Benson leaned forward and put her hand on Cosette's.  
  
"Ms. Alexander, you have a friend at the Ledger. He told Detective Briscoe what happened to you."  
  
Cosette pulled her hand away from Benson's as if she had touched a hot stove. She hastily crushed out her cigarette and made as if to get up from the booth.  
  
"He's lying. I don't do that anymore. I'm trying to get my life straight. Now, I really have to get back to work."  
  
"Ms. Alexander, please, we want to help you." Benson lifted herself too, and put her hand on Cosette's shoulder. She did not grasp the shoulder. She only touched it lightly, in the manner of someone concerned about the person to whom the shoulder was attached.  
  
"Then get the hell out of here and leave me alone!" hissed Cosette, already on her feet. "If Enrique finds out about this, he is going to make things worse than they already are!"  
  
"Enrique is not going to do anything to you." declared Munch. There was a convincing finality in his voice. That caught Cosette, and made her pause. "I told him I kinda like the look of this place, and might make it a point to come here every night. I also told him that we cops do not stop being cops when we punch out, and that, if we see any wrongdoing even when we're off duty, we have to call it in."  
  
"Even so, we're going to get the dinner crowd in a little over an hour." Cosette finally responded. "I have to look presentable for them. I need this job. It doesn't pay as well as...but, I need it just the same."  
  
"We understand that, Ms. Alexander." Benson's voice was so calm, so reassuring, she sounded like a mother or a nurse. "But the sooner we know what happened, the sooner we catch this bastard."  
  
"If Arnie already told you what happened, what do you need from me? I don't want to think about it! I just want to get on with my life!"  
  
"When I was in high school, I was a real puny runt." Again, there was something in Munch's voice that grabbed Cosette. "There was this bully. A jock. A real bastard. Picked on me every day. I didn't want to think about it either. And I didn't do anything about it. Years later, after I became a cop, my then-partner and I were investigating the murder of this high school basketball star. Turns out our victim was killed by this kid he had been bullying. So, my partner and I are having a brew after we close the case. My partner had been a jock in high school too. Big war hero as well, or so he made out at the time."  
  
"What are you trying to tell me, Detective?" Cosette was not going anywhere.  
  
"My partner was going on and on about how he could not understand why that kid killed the basketball star." continued Munch. "Said bullying was normal in high school, and that everybody got over it. I disagreed. He told me to hit him, get it out of my system, you know? He thought I was just going to punch him."  
  
"That's a sad story, but I don't understand..."  
  
"Next thing I know, I have a heavy glass ash tray in my hand," Munch went on as if uninterrupted. "I came within an inch of caving in my partner's skull. I almost killed a man because I didn't want to think about being bullied in high school. Well, I didn't think about it, but it didn't go away. It came back, and I almost killed a man because of it. Wanting to get on with your life is a good thing, Ms. Alexander. But it just won't happen if you try to forget what happened to you."  
  
Cosette sat down in a heap, and said nothing. She began to tremble, then sob softly. Finally, the dam burst, she buried her face into the soft of her elbow, her hands on the top of her head, her fingers touching the back of her skull. Benson crouched at her side and put her arm around Cosette's shoulders. Enrique look their way when he heard Cosette's crying, but was very quickly convinced to go back to what he was doing by a glance from Munch.  
  
Chapter 5  
  
The case turned out to be a slam dunk. Munch and Benson got a solid description from Cosette. When they reported to Captain Creggan, he was persuaded that there was something to go on. He sent Stabler and Fin to Cesar's Palace to see if there had been any other complaints from female guests, or if any of the male guests looked suspicious. The proprietor rather rudely told the detectives that he only took cash and never asked questions.  
  
The combination of the possibility of a report by the detectives to the State and City Revenue agencies, and the alternative that the police would set up shop in his reception area until they saw somebody who fit the description brought about an abrupt change of manners, as well as an eagerness to cooperate. Turned out this guy the proprietor had known in the joint showed up a month earlier, and asked his old pal for a job. The proprietor really didn't have anything for him. Cesar's Palace was small. He had a maintenance crew of two housekeepers. But this guy, he was really scary. He had been in the joint for several counts of aggravated assault, and was much bigger than the proprietor, whose worst sin was trying to pass a few bad checks.  
  
So the proprietor made his pal the night manager. He thought something was wrong, when one woman, who had paid up for two weeks in advance, left the day after he took his pal on, after she had stayed only three days. A week later, one of his housekeepers quit on him. Didn't say why, but she had the look of a hunted animal on her. Then his other housekeeper left. Since then, he had problems keeping housekeepers. So, he let his pal do all the housekeeping. Oh, yeah, and the pal always had people coming in and asking for him, and leaving messages for him. What kind of messages? You know, Sirhano's, Pablito's looking for him. Tell him to be there at eight. Things like that. And, miracle of miracles, the proprietor positively identified the sketch the police artists had made from Colette's description of the rapist as his old pal.  
  
Turned out the pal's name was Eduardo Vera Cruz, a.k.a. Eddie G., 47. Priors for assault, possession, and theft. Also turned out that Eddie G.'s pals Sirhano and Pablito were local dealers. One of Fin's snitches recognized Eddie G. from the mug shot as being a good pal of Sirhano's from the neighborhood. Whenever Sirhano needed to send a message, or whenever he needed somebody to have his back during a deal, Eddie G. was always there. The snitch didn't see Eddie G. around Sirhano regularly, just on those days when Sirhano had a special job. This was enough for Munch and Fin.  
  
They picked up Eddie G. Being on parole, he offered no resistance. Plenty of contempt and verbal abuse, but no resistance. He also offered no confession. Even when Munch told him they had his prints on the nylon rope and the dish-rag gag he used to restrain Cosette and keep her quiet, Eddie G. did not even break a sweat. He did not even flinch when Munch told him they found a hair of his on Cosette, after she reported him. He said that was so obvious, he didn't even need a lawyer. Cosette was a slut and no jury would even care about her.  
  
Fin and Munch were forced to concede to Eddie G. that he was right, that they didn't have a thing on him. Then they told him they would release him. They escorted him to the stairs that lead down to the main door of the precinct. At the precipice of these stairs, Munch called out loudly, "Hey look, Eddie G.! It's your old pal Sirhano! Wonder what those officers are hauling him in for? Oh well, that's not our problem is it?"  
  
Eddie G. stiffened. Sirhano and several of his crew were being led up the stairs in handcuffs by uniformed and plainclothes officers. They all looked up when they heard Munch call out Sirhano's name. Eddie G. pulled back so quickly, they didn't have time to make him out. He was hoping desperately that they didn't hear Munch calling out his own name.  
  
"What's the matter, Eddie?" asked Munch. "Don't you want to go say hello to your old pal Sirhano? Tell him that, even though he's going to be locked up for the next few hours, until his lawyer can make bail, you're going to keep him close to your heart?"  
  
"Whaddya mean, 'Until his lawyer can make bail?' " The big man was trembling. Scary, he might have been, scared, he was now.  
  
"You know what they say about snitches, Eddie" Fin began "No jury would even care about them."  
  
"Whaddya mean, 'snitches?' "  
  
"I mean," Munch, said loudly, the exasperation in his voice resembling that of a parent telling a child something for the umpteenth time. "That everything you told us about your friend Sirhano is most likely not going to hold up in court. Oh, sure, we're letting you go now, because you're a good citizen, you don't want to violate your parole and you came and told us all of this on your own accord. But do you think a jury's gonna care about you?"  
  
"Y-y-yo! Keep your voice down, man" The words came out of Eddie G.'s mouth in a hoarse whisper. Big as he was, as hard as he was trying to backtrack, Munch and Fin's iron grips on his biceps kept him in place. "I didn't tell you guys nothing!"  
  
"Sure, you did, pal!" Munch could have been giving the toast at a wedding with a large guest list, where the microphone was on the fritz, and where he therefore had to rely exclusively on the power of his voice. "Your cooperation helped the New York City Po-leece Department take a dangerous drug dealer off the streets, if only for a few hours. Now go on down these stairs with your head held high."  
  
If Eddie G.'s eyes got any wider, they could have illegally picked up hundreds of satellite channels. The uniforms were leading Sirhano's crew even closer.  
  
"This is murder, man!"  
  
"Oh, I don't know, there are things that are worse than murder, ain't that right Fin?"  
  
"Sure are, Munch! Things like raping women. Like smacking one right in the eye and threatening to knife her, and then trussing her up on a bed and repeatedly violating her, and then giving her two big welts on her stomach just so she knows to keep her mouth shut. I would say that's worse than murder!"  
  
Sirhano was a few steps away.  
  
"Okay, okay, okay, man! Please! I'll say whatever you want! I'll plead guilty, too! Just don't let Sirhano see me. Please! Please!" Eddie G's voice was barely a whisper.  
  
Munch and Fin whisked Eddie G. away before Sirhano could see who was saying his name so loudly at the top of the stairs. He signed a confession to raping seven women, the two housekeepers, their two replacements, two other guests and Cosette Alexander.  
  
Just to be certain, the detectives tracked down and contacted the other six women. With reassurances that they had the man, and a lot of empathy on the part of the detectives, each came forward and identified Eduardo Vera Cruz, a.k.a. Eddie G. as the man who had raped them.  
  
There was little Eddie G.'s Legal Aid lawyer could do to stop the lineup. His client insisted that he signed the confession of his own free will. The Legal Aid lawyer had his doubts, given the terrified look in Eddie G.'s eyes, but with a client who adamantly refused to listen, there was little he could do. With seven positive ID's—the four housekeepers were beyond reproach—the only thing he could do was advise his client to throw himself at the mercy of the court. Like his advice was even needed...  
  
Casey Novak, asked, in view of the severity of his crimes, that Eddie G. be sentenced to five consecutive terms of twenty years, without the possibility of parole. The judge agreed.  
  
Chapter 6  
  
They were all sitting in the squad room, eating Chinese. It was Casey's treat. "On what I make, it was either this or McDonald's." Casey commented.  
  
"You can afford McDonald's? Branch give you a raise?" asked Munch.  
  
"He pays me enough that I don't have to go to the barber you're stuck with!"  
  
They all laughed at that.  
  
"Still," Olivia said when the laughter died down. "It's very nice of you to treat us."  
  
"Well, this is an occasion to celebrate. I feel good about this one, for some reason. It's not a headline case. Probably didn't even get reported. Still, for some reason...I just happen to feel really good about this one. Makes me happy to be here."  
  
"Yeah, we put a bad man away." conceded Stabler. "I'll admit, I didn't want to run with this one at first. But John was so determined, and when he told us you had no doubts about it...well, I'm happy the Captain decided to listen to you two and Olivia instead of me."  
  
"Yeah, you two are persuasive." added Creggan, "And I'm happy you were also so tenacious. We were working what looked like a slam dunk when John first brought this to us. The Wallace case. Well, turns out Mrs. Wallace actually wasn't raped at all. She just has this hostage fetish, and she likes it rough. Her husband walked in on her and her...partner, and she had to cry rape to save face. The poor guy slams into the husband, the runs out of there like a bat out of hell. The concerned husband immediately undoes his wife's restraints, and calls us.  
  
"Turns out, that, for someone being restrained against her will, Mrs. Wallace has precious few marks on her wrists and ankles, unlike Cosette. Liv notices that when she goes to talk to her again. The lab found that the silk scarves 'used to hold Mrs. Wallace in place', did not show a pattern of wear and strain consistent with that story. Then Mrs. Wallace fesses up the whole thing to Liv.  
  
"Problem is, the husband doesn't want to accept this. He's on the phone twice a day to see what progress we've made. When we tell him we have no case, he threatens to call his father-in-law, Morris Morrow, the financier and everybody's favorite campaign donor, to light a fire under our behinds.  
  
"If I hadn't listened to you, Munch, we would still be jumping hoops for nothing to at least get Morrie Morrow to ease up. In the meantime, Eddie Vera Cruz would still be out there. You're right, Counselor," Creggan turned to Casey, "This is one to feel good about."  
  
"I'm glad we are all feeling good!"  
  
Casey and the detectives turned to see to whom the new, annoying, high- pitched voice belonged.  
  
Deputy Assistant Commissioner for Management and Budgets Julian Fowler looked no more appealing than his voice. He was bordering dangerously upon the Department's weight limit. The two chins, which almost eclipsed the knot of his regulation tie, did not help, although they at least matched the swarthiness of the top of his head, from which his hairline was rapidly receding.  
  
He had a manila folder in his left hand, and his right hand, was thrust into his right side, like he was a Stormtrooper watching over a rally. But Julian Fowler, despite the menacing looks he gave in order to gain through fear the respect he could never command by ability, could not project any image of authority outside the Department, and upon anyone other than those truly luckless, entirely unprotected peons who happened to get in his way. Although he had almost a quarter of a century in the Department, all but one of these years were spent behind a desk. There were few police around to remember that one year Julian Fowler had spent on the street, but he was a legend in the Department. He had allegedly fainted when he saw his first (and only) dead body, and asked for a transfer to a desk job soon after that. This is not the kind of legend that commands respect from street cops.  
  
Nor did it help his reputation with them that Julian Fowler was a thoroughly political animal, who could never pass by a superior's or a politician's ring without genuflecting and kissing it. Neither did the fact that he thoughtlessly and ruthlessly enforced every impractical, harebrained political dictum depth-charged from above on police who were actually working the real world. And he got no points at all with the fact that, whenever the Mayor, or some Councilman, or party leader, wanted to crucify a good cop on the say-so of somebody influential, Fowler followed these outsiders with the regularity and predictability of Metamucil.  
  
"Mr. Commissioner, welcome to SVU." Creggan stood up, trying to come between his police and the obese, quasi-omnipotent paper-pusher. "What can I do for you?"  
  
"You can explain why your Stats for this month are so low, they're lying next to what comes out of a whale's behind! This is abominable! When the Mayor and the Council see this, they'll lean on me! And that is unacceptable!"  
  
"Well, Mr. Commissioner," Creggan looked apologetic, when, in reality, it was all that he could do not to choke the stuffing out of Fowler, "With all due respect, you can't run SVU like a factory. Our job just doesn't work that way."  
  
"I am the Deputy Assistant Commissioner for Management and Budgets, Creggan!" screamed Fowler. "I'll run any damn unit that comes within my dominion any damn way I see fit!" Flecks of spittle showered the hapless Creggan.  
  
"As to you 'job,' you don't seem to be doing ANY work! None of you loafers!" Fowler turned from Creggan and waved his right index finger in a semicircle to encompass the entire squad. "If your dismal Stats weren't bad enough, I have Morris Morrow on my neck every day, asking why my snails are sitting on their thumbs about his daughter's rape. Do any of you know how much Morris Morrow contributes to all the parties? That means whoever gets elected, they gets a license to make my life miserable if they want to. And, rest assured, I will not suffer alone!"  
  
"Uh, Sir?"  
  
Fowler fixed Munch in his gaze.  
  
"Yes, Detective?"  
  
"We just closed a case. Serial rapist who raped seven women. He's going to be behind bars for life. If that helps."  
  
"The Alexander Case? Detectives who work under my control spend all their time chasing after some third-rate hoodlum because some hooker claims he raped her? That one case is supposed to make up for your atrocious numbers? That is supposed to justify you dragging your feet on a legitimate case like Christina Wallace?"  
  
"Deputy!"  
  
Casey's bark was so sharp that even Fowler blinked. The SVU detectives looked at her as well. Casey normally spoke with such soothing calm. They had never heard her raise her voice before.  
  
"Are you telling me that you want us to ignore certain rapes if the victims are not the right people?"  
  
There was a silence, as Fowler realized that he had launched his tirade in front of a member of the District Attorney's office.  
  
"Ah...Ms. Novak...I didn't notice you there. Would you excuse us? We have matters to discuss which do not strictly fall within your purview." Fowler was trying desperately to regain his composure  
  
"You are threatening my detectives for helping me do my job, Deputy." Casey spat out the last word with thick contempt. "That is exactly within my purview!"  
  
"Threatening? Your detectives? Ho-ho-ho!" Fowler had regained his composure now, and thought he was on top of things again. "Those are big words, young lady. I have a feeling Mr. Branch would be most aggrieved to hear that one of his junior associates is helping to block the apprehension of Christina Wallace's rapist..."  
  
The threat was obvious to every one in the room. Casey's eyes had locked Fowler's into her stare.  
  
"Go ahead, threaten Arthur Branch, Deputy! The worst that'll happen is, the Governor will appoint him to the Governmental Waste and Mismanagement Commission. Some people will have to explain why the State should continue to throw money at a Department where officers die because there is not enough Kevlar to go around, but Deputy Assistant Commissioners can still find the money to take politicians to steak dinners every day."  
  
Fowler's eyes were nothing but ice and venom. The vein on his forehead started to throb.  
  
"You know, you are not invulnerable, Miss Novak...Nor irreplaceable..."  
  
A smile formed on Casey's face.  
  
"Why, Deputy, are you threatening me? You know that threatening an officer of the court is a criminal offense, don't you? And you just threatened me in front of five witnesses..."  
  
"None of whose testimony will be worth scrap against me! No judge will take any of your words over mine!"  
  
"Maybe, maybe not, Deputy. But one thing's for sure. I sure am going to have a lot of fun trying to make it stick. I have quite a few friends in the media. I am sure you do too. You might be able to quash the report. Then again, it just takes one maverick reporter to get the ball rolling on a scandal..."  
  
The vein on Fowler's forehead throbbed as furiously as an aorta. That helped distract attention from the beads of sweat that were rapidly forming around it. The look in his eyes was very rapidly approaching that of Eddie G. when Sirhano was being lead up the stairs.  
  
"Now, on the other hand, these same contacts of mine would also be very happy with a story about a certain Deputy Assistant Commissioner who faced down the wrath of his superiors to make sure things were made right even for a poor sex worker. 'We aim to serve all New Yorkers, and damn the Stats!' Or something like that. Has a nice ring to it, wouldn't you say?"  
  
Fowler stood impassive for a few moments.  
  
"Well! I think I've wasted enough time here. There are other units worth saving!" he exclaimed at last, turned his vast bulk on his heel, and rapidly exited the squad room.  
  
No one said a word for what seemed to be the longest time. Then Munch walked over to Casey, and clapped a hand on her ordinary-looking, but firmly-muscled left arm.  
  
"It's official now, Casey. Probation's over.  
  
"Welcome to SVU!" 


End file.
